“The Countess Funaro is certainly wealthy enough, if reports be true, without seeking to obtain a paltry two or three thousand lire for her villa,” he said.
“She no doubt had some object in living quietly as she did, especially as she was hiding her identity from you.”
“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he declared, as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him for some ulterior object. “Until I have proof of Gemma’s perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word against her,” he declared decisively.
“You desire proof?” the old woman said, her wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again met his. “Well, you shall have it at once;” and, rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. “Read the words upon this,” she said, with an evil gleam in her vengeful gaze.
He took the picture with trembling hands, and read the following, written boldly across the base:—
“T’invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sarà sempre presente la mia efige, che ti obbligherà a ricordarmi. Tua aff.—Gemma Luisa Funaro.”
The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from the same negative as the one at that moment upon the table in his chambers. The handwriting was undoubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life.
Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. Indeed, it was a hideous truth.